Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set

12

Mary Tudor, queen of France, left England without me at four o’clock on a chilly early October morning. During a brief respite from the wind and rain, the English fleet caught the early tide. I watched them sail away, numb from more than the cold. I do not know how long I stood there, but when I turned away, the king was watching me.

Our paths crossed again later that same day. He stopped to glower down at me as I made my obeisance. He spoke in a voice too low for the courtiers hovering nearby to hear. “You disappointed me, Jane. I had hoped you would remain with my sister and send reports back from France.”

“Your Grace?”

When he continued on, I took several steps in pursuit. He stopped, looking back at me over his shoulder. His face was terrifying easy to read—annoyance, impatience…and the promise of retribution if I angered him further.

“I have no place at court now that your sister is gone, and nowhere else to go.”

Until that moment, he had given no thought to my plight. A speculative light came into his eyes as he looked me up and down. It was the same look I’d seen on his face when he’d first examined some Mantuan horses he’d been sent as a gift.

He was assessing the benefits of acquiring me!

In haste, I dropped my gaze. I had only moments to think of a way to divert his attention before he proposed something I did not want to agree to. He always strayed when the queen was great with child…and he always sent his mistresses away as soon as he was allowed back into his wife’s bed. If I was not to go to France, I wanted to stay at court. What other home did I have?

Inspiration obliged me. I managed a credible sniffle, then a sob.

The king gaped at me. “Are you crying? Stop it at once.”

Pretending to struggle against my emotions, I spoke in a choked voice. “I cannot help myself, Your Grace. I have served you loyally and well. I sent word to you of everything the duke said. But I…care for him. We were to be together in France. He would have treated me with honor.”

Plainly discomfited by the notion, King Henry gave my shoulder a few awkward pats.

“I do not mean to trouble you with this, Your Majesty. You have so many more important things to do. Perhaps I should go to my uncle, my only living relative. Surely he will take me in.”

“To Velville? In Wales?”

“We…we are not close. He has never shown any particular affection toward me. But he is all the kin I have.” I let my voice trail off and tried to look pathetic.

“That will not do.” The king’s smile was magnanimous. “You must stay here. Forthwith, you will enter the queen’s service.”

THE COURT WAS at Eltham Palace throughout October. Catherine of Aragon believed in keeping her attendants busy and I was glad of it. If she resented having me thrust upon her, she did not show it. That made adjusting to my changed circumstances easier, as did Bessie Blount’s friendship. I invited her to share the double lodgings the king had generously allowed me to keep.

In the middle of the month, King Henry received a letter from his sister. She complained bitterly about her new husband. King Louis had dismissed all of her English ladies and menservants except for a few of the youngest maids of honor. In particular Mary lamented the loss of Mother Guildford.

What the king replied to this I do not know. I was not in his confidence. I took heart, however, from the fact that a number of English gentlemen would soon be in a position to see for themselves that their princess was well treated. A great tournament was to be held in Paris to celebrate Queen Mary’s coronation. The Dauphin had issued a challenge to English knights to come and fight. Harry Guildford had already left, leading a detachment of yeomen of the guard. So had Charles Brandon. Of the king’s closest friends, only Will Compton remained in England.

Will had wanted to go. He had been prevented by the sudden onset of pains in his legs, a condition that manifested itself just before the knights were to leave from Dover. He had been unable to walk for a week.

“Some say Compton was bewitched,” Bessie confided in a whisper as we sat side by side in the queen’s presence chamber to work on yet another altar cloth.

“What nonsense,” I replied.

She cast a wary eye on the other ladies in the circle, then lowered her voice even more. “Elizabeth Bryan told me that her sister, Meg Guildford, heard a rumor that the Duke of Suffolk used sorcery to prevent Compton from traveling to France. They are great rivals, as you well know, and equally impressive in a tournament.”

“What nonsense,” I said again. “And how foolish of someone to spread such a story at court.” The talk might cause trouble for Charles Brandon, but as Duke of Suffolk he was a very powerful man. Accusations against him would likely cause even greater difficulty for the person who invented the tale, if he—or she—were ever identified.

My next stitch went askew. My mother must once have been in a similar situation. The accusation that she’d poisoned King Charles might have been difficult to prove, but it would have been even more difficult to refute, especially for someone who possessed neither title nor wealth as protection.

ON THE LAST day of October, I returned to my lodgings a little earlier than usual. I had been excused from my duties with the queen in order that I might pack for the next day’s move to Greenwich Palace. We were scheduled to remain there for the remainder of the year. When I entered the outer chamber, I made no particular effort to be silent, but my footfalls made no sound on the rushes. The two people in the inner room remained unaware of my presence. I heard Bessie’s soft laugh and a murmured response that was clearly masculine.

I started to back out as quietly as I had come in, but froze when Bessie’s guest spoke a bit more loudly and I recognized his voice. It was the king. I knew I should leave, and quickly, but surprise held me immobile.

“Say you will come to me when I send for you, sweet Bessie. Mere kisses are not enough for me any longer. I must have all of you.”

Her reply was too faint for me to make out, but I doubted she was refusing him. I heard a rustle of fabric, then silence.

“Oh, Your Grace,” Bessie cried. “You must not. Not here. Jane could come in at any moment!”

“Jane will not betray us, my little love.”

No, Jane would not, I thought bitterly. Not when Bessie was the only one who had never reviled me for giving myself to a foreign duke. And not when King Henry provided everything I had.

Was this why he had allowed me to stay at court? Did King Henry think Bessie Blount would benefit from having someone older and wiser to guide her in the art of being a great man’s mistress?

Slowly, I backed out of our lodgings and settled myself on a nearby window seat to wait for the king to leave. He did so a few minutes later.

“Bessie?” I called, entering our rooms once again.

“Here.”

I found her on the bed, lying on her back and staring up at the ceiler.

“The king wants you,” I said.

Her pink cheeks flamed rose red. “You saw him leave.”

“I heard you talking just before that.” I climbed up onto the high bed and sat beside her, tucking my legs beneath me.

“What am I to do, Jane? He says he will send Sir William Compton to fetch me. That all I have to do is follow where Compton leads. But, Jane—I do not know how to…what to…I am a virgin!” The last word emerged on a wail of distress.

“Do you wish to lie with the king?” I asked.

“Oh, yes!” She sat up, a dreamy look in her eyes and a shy smile tilting up the corners of her rosebud mouth.

I surveyed her with a critical eye, then leaned closer and sniffed. Bessie used a light marjoram scent, but beneath it I caught a whiff of sweat. “The king was raised with very high standards of cleanliness. There is a bathtub here at Eltham. Avail yourself of it before we leave for Greenwich. And find a soap made from olive oil, not one of the ones the laundresses use.”

Her eyes widened. “But…but is that not unhealthy? To immerse one’s self in water?”

“It has not hurt the king, nor the princess…the queen of France. Nor has careful attention to their teeth.” My former mistress had the most even teeth of anyone I knew and took particular pride in the fact that they were the color of ivory. She owned no fewer than three sets of tooth cloths and picks. “Further, you must put on your newest clothing after you bathe, and beneath all your other garments, wear a little piece of fur next to your skin.”

“Why?”

“To attract any vermin to that one spot.” I touched the side of my bodice. “I have one here. It is a practice the king follows, as well.” All of us who were educated at Eltham did the same.

Impulsively, Bessie embraced me. “I would be lost without you, Jane. How am I ever to thank you?”

“Be happy,” I said before I thought.

When she beamed at me, I bit back all the warnings crowding into my brain. She was willing, I reminded myself. And even if she had not been so enthusiastic about going to the king’s bed, what choice did she have?

What choice did any of us have about anything?

IN DEFERENCE TO the queen’s sensibilities, the king chose to use Will Compton’s house in Thames Street for his first assignation with Bessie Blount. This took place in early November, shortly after the move from Eltham to Greenwich.

In spite of dismal weather, Bessie and I left the palace on the pretext of a trip to London to visit the shops. Our presence was not required by the queen and in theory we were free to go where we wished, but it seemed a poor ruse to me. If not for my growing fondness for Bessie, I most assuredly would not have ventured out on such a day.

After a cold, damp five-mile trip by wherry, we were hustled up the river stairs, through a back door, and along a passage to a bedchamber. A fire blazed in the hearth, giving off welcome warmth. A dozen quarriers had been lit—square blocks of beeswax with a wick, similar to those that illuminated King Henry’s chambers at court. A luxurious, fur-trimmed robe for Bessie to change into had been left on the bed.

Relegated to the role of tiring maid, I helped her out of her damp cloak and the elaborate court dress beneath, removed her headdress, and brought her water for a last wash before she donned the sumptuous robe. I brushed her long, golden hair till it shone, and then produced a mixture of white wine and vinegar boiled with honey with which she could freshen her breath.

When all was ready, we had naught to do but wait for the king to arrive. Bessie kept a tight hold on my arm, her hand icy with last-minute nerves. I had told her all I could to help her through the afternoon. The rest was up to King Henry. As soon as His Grace arrived, I left them alone together, following the sound of voices to Will’s hall.

“Come, Jane, join us in a game of chance.” Will had already suborned the two yeomen of the guard who had accompanied the king into playing with him. They sat on stools around a small gaming table, tankards of ale at their elbows and coins at the ready to wager.

“Without the knight marshall of the household to oversee matters?” I asked in mock horror. “I am not sure I can trust you not to cheat.”

Will took no offense, only grinned at me and used one foot to push the remaining stool in my direction. “We need no official to bring us cards or act as bookmaker.”

“Perhaps I prefer dice.” The queen, for all that she was very pious, gambled with as much fervor as everyone else at court. I meandered closer. “The knight marshal’s dice are brought to the table in a silver bowl. Did you neglect to furnish yourself with one?”

Will shuffled cards, his pride pricked by that sally. He lived well for a simple country knight, and if the rumors I had heard were true, he was building a veritable palace for himself in the Cotswolds. After Charles Brandon, King Henry favored Will Compton above all men and had given him many gifts to prove it.

“You may choose the game, Jane. What will it be? Mumchance? Gleek? Click-Clack? Imperial? Primero?”

I pretended to give the matter deep thought, but I’d been lucky of late at primero and hoped to be so again. Compton dealt three cards to each player. I looked at my hand and calculated quickly. In primero, each card had three times its usual value. Hiding my smile, I settled in to play. An hour later I had won all the two yeomen of the guard had to wager and was in a cheerful frame of mind.

“A pity you cannot afford to play for higher stakes,” Will commented as I raked in my winnings. “You will never grow rich wagering pennies.”

“Nor will I be reduced to selling my clothing.”

The two yeomen of the guard laughed and wandered off, no doubt to rid themselves of all the ale they had consumed. Left alone with Will, I felt a sudden awkwardness descend. I could not help but wonder how long the king usually spent disporting himself with a mistress, but that was not the kind of question I could ask, not even of an old friend.

I sent a sidelong glance his way and discovered that he was staring at me intently. I quickly looked away, a frown on my face. I picked up the cards and idly began to shuffle them.

“The king hoped at least one of his own people would remain in France,” Will said.

I stifled a laugh. “I do not know why he expected me to continue to spy for him. Or how. I would have been hard pressed to send intelligence back to England.”

“Had you other plans?” Will’s voice was so smooth and uncritical that I almost confided in him.

I caught myself in time, lest a desire to do other than King Henry’s bidding be misconstrued as treason. “If I had not been refused entry in the first place, I would doubtless have been sent home with the rest of the French queen’s English household.” In spite of Mary’s passionate and tearful protests, not even Mother Guildford had been allowed to remain at the French court.

“You were fond of Longueville.” It was not a question.

“I was. So was the king,” I added, in case this, too, should be misunderstood.

“And when you came to England, years ago, it was from France.”

“I was born in Brittany.” I grew tired of reminding people of that but they never seemed to remember. “My mother was one of Duchess Anne’s ladies.” I looked up at last, into sympathetic, even pitying hazel eyes.

“You must have been disappointed, then, not to be allowed to go with the Lady Mary.”

“Has the king assigned you to test my loyalty?”

The blunt question surprised a laugh out of him. “No, he has not. Be of good cheer, Jane. You may yet have your heart’s desire. King Henry has been talking of a meeting with King Louis come spring. If the entire court travels to France, the queen will perforce take all her ladies with her, even you.”

I smiled and pretended to be pleased by the notion, but all I could think was that the king of France thought I should be burnt. I did not dare go back, not even under King Henry’s protection.

“HE WAS SO gentle with me, Jane. So tender.” Bessie whirled around in a circle, her face wreathed in smiles.

“I am happy for you,” I said.

“And I think I pleased him.” She blushed becomingly. “He praised my eyes and my hair and my breasts.”

“Bessie.” I caught her hands in mine and waited until she looked at me. “You must never forget that King Henry takes mistresses when the queen is with child and he is denied her bed. When he can return to it, he will lose interest in you. He is, in his way, a faithful husband.”

Her smile was one of pity. “But he is mine to keep for a while,” she said. “How many women can say they have bedded the king of England?”

IT WAS LATE November when Meg Guildford sought me out at court with surprising news. “Harry’s mother desires your company, Mistress Popyncourt,” she said. Her mouth was pursed with disapproval, making her look as if she’d just bitten into a lemon.

I dropped my needle in surprise. “She has returned to England?”

“She has. Will you come with me or not?”

I went. Mother Guildford was in full spate when we arrived at the double lodgings Meg and Harry occupied at court, complaining to Meg’s sister, Elizabeth, of King Louis’ many sins. She did not even pause for breath when Meg and I entered the room.

“He suffers from gout and God knows what else. Both hands and feet are crippled, and he can barely keep his seat on a horse. He needs the help of three servants to get him into the saddle. He is confined to bed for days at a time, and he is the most nervous fellow you would ever want to meet.”

“The king’s portrait showed a pleasant enough countenance,” I interrupted, remembering a strong face, weather beaten and sagging a little with middle age, but with striking features—large eyes and a long, thin nose.

“That was painted years ago. Now he looks a decade older than he is. Swollen cheeks. Bulbous nose. Decayed teeth. He is plagued by a catarrh, and he gulps his spittle when he talks. They say he was a tall man once, but you would not know it to look at him now.”

“I gather you did not get on with him,” I murmured.

She rounded on me and I heard both sisters suck in their breaths. Then, surprising all of us, Mother Guildford laughed. “You have changed little since I saw you last, Jane Popyncourt.”

“Have you news of the Lady Mary?”

“The queen of France, you mean.”

“Yes. The queen of France.”

“Only what all hear, that she sits beside her new husband’s bed, tending to him with loving kindness as he receives envoys from England.” Her face was a study in conflict, her dislike of King Louis at war with pride in Mary Tudor. “He sent me away on the day after the French wedding ceremony. Said I meddled.”

“That was nearly two months ago. Have you spent all this time traveling home?”

“On King Henry’s orders I went no farther than Boulogne, in case I should be called back. I spent weeks waiting there, hoping King Louis could be persuaded to change his mind. That foul old man! I should have heeded the omens.”

“The storm before you sailed, do you mean?”

“That one and the other tempest that struck when our ships were in the midst of the crossing from Dover. The fleet was scattered. The ship we were aboard ended up grounded on a sandbank.”

“My poor lady,” I murmured. “How terrified she must have been of the thunder and lightning.”

“That was the least of it,” Mother Guildford declared. “Her Grace was lowered into a rowing boat to be taken ashore, but even that small craft could not land. One of her entourage had to carry her through the surf in his arms. The queen of France! She arrived damp and bedraggled, hardly an auspicious beginning.”

“I am sure her new subjects took the weather into consideration. We have heard that there were pageants to welcome her and much rejoicing that the war was at an end.”

“The French put on a passable display,” Mother Guildford grudgingly admitted. “Both the Duke and the Duchess of Longueville came to greet their new queen,” she added, slanting her eyes in my direction. “The duchess is a striking woman. Very handsome. She and Longueville seemed most affectionate toward each other, as is only to be expected after such a long separation.”

That her comments failed to provoke a jealous reaction seemed to increase the old woman’s animosity toward me. She went on to provide elaborate descriptions of the journey to Abbeville and the official wedding ceremony held there, waxing vituperative and vitriolic once more about her dismissal from the queen’s service.

“Only a few minor attendants and six maidens too young to have had any experience at court remain with Queen Mary,” she complained. “I was replaced by a Frenchwoman, a Madam d’Aumont, about whom I know nothing.”

Mother Guildford’s litany of grievances was still going strong when I excused myself to return to my duties with Queen Catherine. Belatedly, she remembered that she had sent for me. She slid a sealed letter out of one of her long, loose sleeves.

“The Duke of Longueville’s man sends you this.” She fixed me with a gimlet-eyed stare, no doubt hoping for some telling reaction when she handed it over.

I thanked her politely and carried the letter away with me.

I stopped at the nearest window alcove after leaving the Guildfords’ lodgings and broke the seal, noticing as I did so that it showed signs of having been tampered with. I was not surprised, nor was I alarmed. Guy must have known that anything he wrote to me could be read by others.

He had written on the tenth of October, just before Mother Guildford’s departure from Abbeville. He began by expressing his sadness that I had been denied the opportunity to visit France. He made no mention of how the duke felt about that development. Then he said that it would be some time yet before he could travel to Amboise.

I read that sentence again. Amboise, not Beaugency, the duke’s home, nor yet Guy’s own lands, but Amboise, where I had hoped to go to ask questions about my mother. Did he mean to ask them for me?

A rustle of fabric had me hastily refolding the letter before I finished reading it.

“You are ill advised to fraternize with the French,” said Mother Guildford. “If you have the sense God gave a goose, you will live righteously from this day forward. No good ever comes of illicit love, nor yet from seeking to live above your station.”

“I am no longer in the schoolroom, madam, nor under your control. And I am no longer convinced that you have my best interests at heart.”

“Ungrateful girl!”

“Hardly a girl any longer, madam. And not best pleased to have been lied to.”

“What are you going on about now?”

“You, madam. You told me Queen Elizabeth’s ladies from my mother’s time had scattered, and you implied that most were dead. In truth, a goodly number of them now serve our present queen. And you must have known the name of the priest most likely to have heard my mother’s confession, for he went with your husband to the Holy Land and died there with him.” Once started, I could not seem to stop myself. “Was my mother really ill when she first came to court, or was that another lie?”

The look of panic on Mother Guildford’s face brought my tirade to an abrupt end. Bereft of speech, I watched as her eyes rolled up and her knees buckled. She landed in an ungainly heap at my feet.

Kneeling beside her, I called out for help. In short order she had been tucked into bed and a physician had been called to look after her. When Meg ordered me to leave, I did not argue, but I was puzzled by what had just happened. What had I said to cause such an extreme reaction?

Brooding, I returned to the queen’s presence chamber, where I was scolded for neglecting my duties. Many hours passed before I was able to finish reading the letter Guy had written to me more than a month earlier. When I did, a frisson of fear snaked through me.

The explanation for his delay in leaving for Amboise was both simple and terrifying. He intended to remain at the French court in order to participate in the tournament being held to celebrate Queen Mary’s coronation. He hoped to acquit himself better this time.

THE TOURNAMENT HAD originally been planned to last three days. In actuality, it stretched out over a much longer period because of delays caused by rain. The first event was held on Monday, the thirteenth day of November. Over three hundred contestants, fifty of them English, participated. Among them were Charles Brandon, Harry Guildford, and Ned Neville.

“Ten challengers were led by the Dauphin himself,” I heard someone say as I entered the queen’s presence chamber at Green-which the day following my encounter with Mother Guildford.

“—held at the Parc des Tournelles in Paris.”

“The old palace there was the Louvre, but it is in such bad repair that no one uses it anymore.”

“—interrupted by heavy rains.”

“Suffolk wore small red crosses all over his armor, for St. George and England.”

“They all did.”

The king, seated on the dais with the queen, raised his hand for silence. “The news from France is good. I received earlier reports, but now I have a letter giving details. On the first day of the tournament, my lord of Suffolk ran fifteen courses. Several horses and one Frenchman were slain but none of our good English knights took any serious injury.”

For a moment I lost my breath. One Frenchman slain? I prayed with all my heart that it had not been Guy. I did not consider for a moment that it might have been the duc de Longueville. If he had been injured or killed, the king would have said so.

Bracing one hand against a window frame, I forced myself to listen to King Henry, who was now reading from a letter. It gave an account of the bouts fought on the eighteenth of November.

“‘—divers times both horse and man were overthrown. There were horses slain, and one Frenchman was hurt that is not likely to live.’”

Yet again, word of an unidentified Frenchman. Did the English competitors care so little for life that they could not even be bothered to name their victims?

“My lord of Suffolk ran only the first day,” the king continued, squinting to decipher the tiny letters on the page, “because there was no nobleman to be put against him, only poor men at arms and Scots. Many were injured on both sides, but of our Englishmen none were overthrown nor greatly hurt except a little upon their hands.”

There was more, but my attention wandered. Around me I could see that the lack of names troubled others among the queen’s ladies. That their husbands or lovers or sons might be hurt “a little upon their hands” was a concern to them. Injuries, even small ones, could all too easily lead to death.

My gaze darted back to the king when he laughed. He joked with Compton but ignored the queen. There had been a certain coldness between them since he’d first learned of King Ferdinand’s betrayal. No one could hold a grudge like King Henry. I doubted that the queen would regain his favor fully until she gave birth to his heir, and that event would not occur for some months.

If the queen knew about Bessie, she pretended not to. Tonight, once again, it would be Bessie who shared the king’s bed. I would be the one to accompany her to their rendezvous and ready her to receive him. Then I would wait with Will Compton in a drafty antechamber until it was time to escort Bessie away again. Wait…and worry.

It did not matter where I spent the night. I doubted I would sleep even if I had our soft feather bed all to myself. My thoughts would keep circling back to the unnamed Frenchman who had died in the tournament. Were there more dead by now, more “poor men at arms and Scots” who did not deserve to be mentioned by name?

And was one of them Guy Dunois?

IN DECEMBER, ELIZABETH Bryan married Nick Carew at Greenwich Palace. I was there, as part of the queen’s entourage, for Catherine attended the wedding even though she was hugely pregnant. The king was there, too. So were Harry Guildford, at last returned from France, and Mother Guildford, fully recovered from what she now termed a mere dizzy spell.

My friendship with Harry had been strained for some time, both because his wife did not like me and in consequence of my liaison with the duc de Longueville. In spite of that, I hoped he might be willing to answer questions about his time in France.

My first opportunity to speak with him came when the dancing commenced. I singled him out during a lull between pavanes and motioned for him to join me in an antechamber.

“Does this mean you missed me?” he quipped.

“Try not to be any more foolish than God made you!”

He sobered instantly. “What is it, Jane?”

“The Frenchmen who were killed or gravely injured—was one of them Guy Dunois?”

“No. Dunois was hale and hearty the last time I saw him.”

My relief was so great that I had to brace my hand against the nearest tapestry-covered wall for support.

“Are you ill?”

“No.”

“Are you with child?”

“No!”

The baffled look on his face might have been comic if I had not been so full of other emotions. “Both Dunois and Longueville took part in the jousting. Once again, your duke acquitted himself well.”

When I did not respond, his eyes narrowed. He gave a low whistle. “So that’s the way of it. It is not the duke you pine for, but his bastard brother.”

“I am not pining for any man!”

Holding both hands up, palms out, he backed away from me, a huge grin splitting his face. I caught his arm. We did not have much time. Someone would come looking for us if we remained here long, most likely Harry’s wife. “Did he send any message to me?”

“Dunois?”

I glared at him. “Yes, Dunois. He offered to undertake an…errand for me in France.”

Harry scowled at that. “I could have carried out any commission—”

“It was to do with my mother,” I said in haste. I had not told Harry Guildford a great deal about my inquiries into my past, but I had mentioned them months before.

“I know nothing of that, but I think someone said that Dunois left Paris as soon as the tournament was over.”

When Harry returned to the dancing, I remained where I was awhile longer. In the dimly lit antechamber, I attempted to collect my thoughts. I was relieved of my concerns about Guy’s survival, but was left to wonder when and how he would contrive to send word to me of what he found at Amboise. I supposed that was where he had gone, unless the duke had sent him on an errand elsewhere.

It did no good to speculate. Either Guy would write to me again or he would not. In the meantime, I had no way to leave court, let alone make the journey to France to join him, even if I dared risk entering that country while King Louis reigned. The best thing I could do was concentrate on living the life I had. I would serve the queen and stay, as much as possible, in the background. With that I could be content…for now.

Returning to the festivities, I wandered aimlessly about the hall, listening in here and there to conversations. Much of the talk continued to be about the French tournament.

“In the tourney, Suffolk nearly killed a man and beat another to the ground and broke his sword on a third. He—”

“I hear the Dauphin dropped out because he broke a finger.”

“Our knights fought on despite injury.”

“—an attempt by the French to embarrass the Duke of Suffolk by substituting a German in the foot combats.”

I had already heard that tale, told by Charles Brandon himself, and I was not surprised to come upon him telling it yet again.

“Of a sudden I found myself facing a giant, hooded to conceal his identity. He was a powerful German fighter who had been substituted for a Frenchman, but I did not know that then. All I could see was a mountain of a man charging straight at me. By sheer strength, I fought off the attack, seizing the fellow by the neck and pummeling him so about the head that the blood issued out of his nose.”

“And was the French deceit revealed?” Bessie Blount asked in a breathless voice. She stared up at the Duke of Suffolk, her face full of admiration for his prowess.

By her side stood the king, looking less impressed and a trifle annoyed that he had to share her hero worship.

“The German was spirited away before his identity could be discovered, but we learned the truth later. And in the tournament as a whole, Englishmen were victorious. None was killed and few were injured.” Brandon affected a sheepish look—all for show!—and drew back his glove to show Bessie the small injury he’d sustained to one hand.

I continued on, my thoughts having once again strayed to Guy Dunois. I paid little attention to my surroundings until a great commotion drew my gaze to the dais where the queen sat. For a moment I could make no sense of what I saw there. Then both dismay and pity filled my heart.

The queen was in labor…and it was much too soon.